Gold Frames
by AshleyWritesFanfiction
Summary: A case involving a painting comes along and Sherlock rethinks on what it is like to be special. And Lonely. Inspired by song "All the rowboats" by Regina Spektor. Not Beta'd.


A/N: This is my first real published fic! This is inspired by a Tumblr post I saw. It was beautiful graphic of Sherlock, half of his face out of frame and the words, "The most special are the most lonely" in small cursive letters. On the bottom in the white space the words from the graphic appear again, but including, "I pity the violins" and a link to the song, "All the Rowboats" by Regina Spektor. I have no idea who made this and if you are lucky you might even find it. I will tell you this though; it truly touched me how this was so fitting to Sherlock and his personality. I'm glad I stopped to look at that post (and reblog it) and click on the link. Without it, I would have never found such a haunting, beautiful song and maybe, just maybe I understand Sherlock Holmes far more than I did before.  
Edit: I have now found the original post and the original poster! Here post/31613789998/but-the-most-special-are-the-most -lonely-god-i  
Disclaimer: Do I look like Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to you? I do not own BBC Sherlock. I do not own "All of the rowboats" by Regina Spektor.  
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The case involved an oil painting, a simple painting that most people wouldn't think twice about, but only admire. It was not a picture depicting something from history, or bared a unique style never seen before, or has any thought provoking concepts to consider. It was not a work of a celebrated artist or portrayed any real, true feeling from the painter at all. It was just simply beautiful painting that those who saw it admired.  
The scene was set like this: A lighthouse shining brightly during a violent storm, the waves of the sea beating upon the lone building and the sharp cliffs surrounding it. The sky was black with angry clouds that seem to suffocate the whole shore. Dotting a good distance from the lighthouse were three rowboats, barely noticeable among the darkness of the ocean. Two of the boats were empty. The first one carried a lone figure standing upon it. You could not see if it was a man or woman, what you did see was how it reached for the ocean, which ended at the gold frames that incased the image. What was strange was the way the rowboats were facing. Not toward the safety of the lighthouse, a beacon in a nightmare. They faced the mad ocean, among the choppy wave and chilling water.  
It made little sense why they were arranged that way. Still no matter, it was the case that made no sense at all.

John secretly thanked the lord when Lestrade called it in. He was at his wit's end with bloody Sherlock and his gruesome experiments and bored delight in tagging the flat's walls with unflattering drawings in yellow spray paint. He had agreed, along with Mrs. Hudson, to allow that ridiculous happy face on that _one _wall, but Sherlock went ahead and decorated a bit more. Now he had to stare at a mocking depiction of Anderson in the kitchen as he had his breakfast and a morbidly obese Mycroft in the bathroom. John was really considering grabbing Sherlock, wrapping him up with duct tape (including his mouth, obliviously) and stuffing him in the broom closet and see how long it would take for him to get out. Why not? It would entertain Sherlock for a while and leave John in peace, if only for a short time.

The worst thing about Sherlock's tantrums as John likes to call them, but will never say so out loud in fear his eccentric flatmate may hear, was lapses between his complete silence and motor mouth tendencies. Yes, he would often stay quiet during an investigation, thinking over the facts and sharing them vaguely to John. Except it was nothing like the episodes of not hearing one sound come from him. Not even a sigh or a hum. Occasionally when he laid still upon the sofa and John would assume he fell asleep, only to see him jump off the sofa and skitter into the kitchen, making the loudest racket he could make in two o'clock in the morning all without once opening his mouth. Those were almost as bad as the moments when he. Just. Will. Not. Shut. Up. It would be a spontaneous explosion of words in the oddest of moments, telling John about something he neither understood or cared for and would last for more than half an hour and suddenly stop as Sherlock realized John wasn't really listening. Then he would slink into his own silence for days and then abruptly let out a flow of words and continue the cycle until he found something distracting.

So it was heaven sent when Sherlock's phone went off and Sherlock asking John to hand it to him from the coffee table that he was only inches away from. John happily obliged and sighed in relief when Sherlock sat up saying, "Lestrade, you have something for me?"

A short silence commenced as Lestrade spoke. Listening, Sherlock said," We will be there soon, Tell Anderson not to move anything, nearly ruined the investigation last time. Good."  
With that he ended the call and bounded from the sofa, shouting, "Get ready John, we have an interesting one, Lestrade is expecting us!" as if John were much farther than him, before entering his room and slamming the door.

John pulled on his coat and put his browning in his coat pocket and hoping he wouldn't have to use it anytime tonight. You never know in these investigations considering how much trouble Sherlock gets himself into, taking precautions was necessary.  
As John waited at the foot of the stairs, in front of the door, Mrs. Hudson came out to see and knew right away that there was a case and silently thanked the lord her walls will spared if only for a small time. Just as she was about to ask John of the details, Sherlock breezed by in a whirlwind of words.  
"No time to talk Mrs. Hudson, it's about time someone got themselves murdered. Don't give me that look John you know I needed this. I was almost about to figure out where you hid the cigarettes, if it is in the toilet tank again I will be very disappointed on how unimaginative you are." 

He was out the door and hailing a cab before John can reply how he wouldn't hide the cigarettes someplace he already had (Though Sherlock was very close, they were actually under the sink in a little alcove that no one would notice if they weren't looking for it, but that wasn't the point). The cab ride was longer than most, only making Sherlock more impatient then he already was. His body was stiff with tension and his eyes shifty in anticipation, John just watched, realizing it had been an awful long time since the last case. So he felt a slight pity for Sherlock in his boredom and the need for mental stimulation. It still wasn't enough to let what he did to the walls pass by of course.  
When they had arrived at the crime scene, John stepped out in awe of the building before him. It was an old house, appearing to have been built in the days of horse drawn carriages and Oscar Wilde. It should be noted here that 'old' is not used as a negative term, except as an appraisal, the bricks were still red as the day they were laid and the iron bars on the windows far from rusted.

Three stories high and a smoking chimney, it stuck out like a sore thumb among the modern lofts crowding around. Wedged between the brand new it stood as if proud, never allowing time to lay its hand and looking disproving at the other buildings, criticizing their youth like an elder among today's adolescents.  
It almost made John laugh how much it reminded him of a professor at Bart's and the frown he had whenever the students would display their ignorance of the old days.  
_Things can never stay the same can they?  
_Before John can comment, Sherlock zoomed passed him much like he had when they left the flat and lifted the police tape, bowed under it with grace and disappeared into the front door, completely ignoring the other officers milling about. John sighed and knew that was straight to business with Sherlock and that he should've known better. Lifting the yellow tape and ducking under, he heard someone call out to him. 

"Doctor, not surprised to see you here."

He turned to see Sergeant Donovan saunter over to him with a smirk he couldn't tell what it was about.

He nodded and greeted her with a pristine politeness that would make his mother proud. John never really liked Donovan when they first met and grew quite irritated with her when she began suggesting hobbies as an alternative to helping Sherlock solve cases. He only then began tolerating her when after the pool incident with Moriarty, She confided in him that she would miss picking on Sherlock if anything were to happen to the man.  
"He's like that freaky cousin that nobody wants to talk about in the family." She had said. "And he annoys the hell out of you, but you are so used to him that family reunions wouldn't feel the same if he weren't there."

It took him by surprise that in a small way she actually cared. But she still thought that Sherlock was a smart-arse git, and that John understood perfectly.  
"I don't see how my being here would be surprising at all."  
He said to Donovan as he shifted awkwardly, wanted to get inside to see what Sherlock already figured out.  
She chuckled and stuck her hands into her trench coat and said, "No of course not. I just know that if _he's_ here, you'll be here too."

John didn't like the sound of what Donovan was saying. She made it sound like he never leaves Sherlock's side, like a puppy. He scoffed and look toward the house, which looked like it was overrun with officers top to bottom. He could see them in the dining room window, wandering shadows from the second floor window, and even flashlights flickering from the attic.  
He turned back and said, "Well, you saw him zipping in. It's been a month since we had something and he was practically scratching at the walls."

Donovan just shrugged, "I'm afraid I wasn't looking when he got here. I just saw you" she then added, "I don't need to see him it's his type of case, and if Sherlock isn't here it just means he's on his way. And you'll just follow suit."

Slightly miffed, he replied, "You make it sound like I never leave him alone, that we are stuck together like glue or something of the sort."

"You mean you don't? Because it sure looks like it, Doctor, I'm just saying."

Now John was very irritated and wanted to just walk away. John was his own person and Donovan comes along to point out how it looks that he sold his soul to Sherlock. He was there because he wanted to, not because Sherlock forced him to come. He voluntarily helps Sherlock solve these crimes and enjoys doing something that helps people. If he wanted to he could leave right now, but he won't because he wanted to be there. Because of Sherlock.

Donovan caught on to John's agitation and said, "I understand why though, Dr. Watson. At least I think I do."  
With that John snapped to look straight into her face, wondering what did she meant. At his puzzled look she continued, "You are here because you want to. See, I never imagined Sherlock to be any relationship of any kind. Then you pop in and prove me wrong. You two…" She stopped and took her hands out of her pockets, gesturing as if she was trying to find the right words.

Finally Donovan sighed, putting her hands back in her coat pockets, saying, "You two care about each other… You're friends and there is nothing wrong with that. Here I am making it sound weird that you're always together at these things and I forget that you are a unit that actually solves these cases. Though it is a bit annoying where when another person does your job for you."  
Of all the things that John was expecting from Donovan, this was not one of them. The slight shock that he felt was soon extinguished when, from the corner of his eye he saw Anderson hover into his sight.  
John was not going to stick around for this. Donovan was alright, He just didn't want anything to do with Anderson. The man was always giving Sherlock these awful looks and was clearly jealous of him. He would still try to pry, and add his comments to the investigations, which were always proven wrong, by who else? Something else may have happened between Sherlock and he, John was sure of that. The animosity Anderson held was too much to be from just quips and insults.

None the less, John was not staying. Turning to Donovan, he said, "Well, I'm surprised to hear that from you really. No-no not like that, I just… Thank you. Really thank you Sally."

It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name. Sally Donovan blinked once, twice, and shook her head as she smiled  
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A/N: Was originally going to make this into an oneshot, but it got too long and I really wanted to publish a part of it already. There is more to come so be patient. Read and Review if any good?


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